


The Witch Is Riding Your Back

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Prick and Perforate [3]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: For once no one is drunk, I have nothing else to say for myself, M/M, The ending is not-unhappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Life is but a dream, you dickhead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the sequence of events begun in "AJ's Annual Party" and "Normal Love".  
> The quote in the summary comes from a comic by notalkingplz on Tumblr.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Part of him must want to get caught. Another part of him doesn't believe that he could be- that the logic of dreams applies, and he can't be seen because he's just no longer real. Of course he's not real- he can't actually be doing this. This could never happen. If this is impossible, so is he. So, of course, Harry parks his car on the street.  
Like a premonition, though, he suddenly sees Shelly sidling up to Norma the next morning and asking in that way she has if Norma's harboring any known fugitives, because there was a police car in front of her house all night. But the streets around Harry are bare; everything like glass, bright and hard and breakable, in the frigid air. Not a soul in sight, to rupture the night- make the glass of it shatter. You never know who's watching, though. Go anywhere in town, Hank once said, and you can see everywhere else in town. By that logic, Harry's always on display. Any eyes still open at this hour must necessarily be on him.  
The key in his hand is either too hot or too cold. He thinks of the story about the girl given a key to a secret room that she was never to enter. When she did- for, how could she not?- inside, she found terrible things. What will Harry find?  
That's a stupid question.  
He knows exactly what he's going to find. Heated air fans over his face and neck as he enters the house. Some of the cold follows him in, a silvered gasp as he locks the door behind him. Inside, the atmosphere is warm and close. The carpet is soft underfoot. The darkness is soft, too, like velvet. It's like being in someone's mouth.  
Harry knows what will happen. Norma's going to come out of her room, for a glass of water, or to watch TV alone in the dark because she can't sleep. She's going to see him, and scream. Hank will run out of his room, and knock out the intruder. Later, of course, he'll claim that he didn't know- couldn't have known that it was Harry. What was Harry doing in their house?  
This, too, is a dream. Hank's a heavy sleeper. More likely, it would be Norma to come upon Harry and knock him out, later deluging him with apologies and questions, both, Hank unconscious through the whole performance.  
The house remains silent around Harry, holding him in its silence. He's cradled by it.  
Hank's door opens without a sound. Harry locks it behind him. In sleep, Hank looks uneasy, worried, brow furrowed, mouth drawn into an inverted “V”. His body's a rigid wall against one side of the bed, the rest of it spread out behind him. It's like he knew that Harry was coming tonight. Maybe he's been waiting for Harry to come every night, since he gave Harry the key.  
The room is warm, and it's dark, so it's easy for Harry to take off his clothes. It's still weird enough to thrill him. The further he gets from his car, from outside, from the buffering plush of the dark, silent hallways, the more it all thrills him. Until he's naked, beginning to chill, even with the heat on, so turned on he can barely think. He pulls back the covers of Hank's bed and fits himself into the recess left by Hank's body. He presses himself against Hank, slips his hand between Hank's legs. Touches him slowly.  
With a gasp, Hank starts awake. He says Harry's name.  
“Don't talk,” Harry says against the back of his neck.  
He lets Harry touch him a little bit longer, and then turns around, wraps himself around Harry, kisses him, slow and clumsy with the fog of sleep and new arousal. He lets himself be rolled onto his back, Harry's hands under his pajama jacket, touching him through his tee shirt. The pajama jacket comes off, but Harry leaves the tee shirt on, rubbing the material against Hank's skin. Kissing his chest through it, wet where Harry can feel his nipples. Hank arches his back, opens his mouth but doesn't make a sound. It's like watching a dirty movie with no soundtrack. You can still hear all of the moans inside your head. You'd make them, yourself, if you weren't in this movie, too.  
He lifts up Hank's tee shirt, puts his mouth on skin. Brings his mouth up to Hank's again to press his hips into Hank's, rub up against him. Hank lets himself be undressed, no longer asleep but willing to pretend, to move as though in a dream. When he moves, he mirrors Harry. Harry kisses him, and he kisses back. Harry pushes against him, and he pushes back. People used to tell them that they looked alike. In the dark, like this, no one would be able to tell them apart. Or even say where one ended and the other began. Maybe they're even beginning to feel the same things, because it seems that Hank's pleasure is now his. It's what he feels when he goes down on Hank. He doesn't want to stop, even at the end, which is soon. Hank must be feeling what he is. This strange, bitter ache, pain that digs into your bones. Desperation and need, and a terrible fear that it'll leave you, and you'll be empty. For the fear, though, you can't stop. You need to see it through. The only sound that escapes Hank when he comes is a long, stuttered sigh. He was rough. It hurt.  
At this point, though, even pain feels good.  
Harry spits into the glass of water on Hank's bedside table.  
He kisses Hank hard and deep, lets Hank taste himself on Harry. Hank likes these kinds of things. Weird, wet things that Harry hadn't even known existed before now.  
Hadn't believed that people actually did them, anyway.  
He's beginning to feel like the junkies they pull over for speeding, blowing through town on their way to anywhere else. The way they look at you, all fear and hunger. Some say that they can smell it on a person, that need. Harry can almost smell it on himself. He spits in his hand, slicks his cock with saliva. In the dark, Hank smiles. He knows what's coming, he wants it, but it's still difficult. Harry knows that he's hurting Hank. That's not a compelling reason to stop. It almost hurts Harry, too, in a different way. It's too much.  
It's too much.  
It could never be enough.  
He stops trying to do anything. He stops trying to think. He pushes in, fucks Hank exactly the way he wants to. Maybe he's doing some kind of damage, but from the way Hank moves with him, it's damage that Hank wants done. He holds Hank's wrists over his head, knocks them against the headboard. The sound is punishingly dull and immense in the dark. He kisses Hank's mouth. Breathes out against his neck. Breathes with him. Comes inside of him, all but breaking apart with the force of it. It's like Harry's been beaten, from the inside, out.  
For a long time, Harry feels nothing. He has no body, and he is no thing. This must be why they call it death. A detail at a time, though, it must creep in. It's with the feeling of waking from a troubling dream that he realizes that he's still inside of Hank. Suddenly, nothing is easy, anymore. He's awake. His body no longer moves with the logic of dreams. Hank makes a sound of discomfort as he pulls out. It bothers Harry that the thought of hurting Hank bothers him.  
He has to go. He has to go home. Time and distance must bury this. It needs to go away. He gets out of bed. He tries to find his clothes. In the dark, everything before him just looks like the floor.  
“Harry,” says Hank. His voice is tired.  
“I told you not to say anything,” Harry says. He's awake. He has a body again. He can be seen. He's exposed. He doesn't want to be caught.  
He looks at Hank. In the dark, he's barely there. He's not real.  
Harry can still taste him.  
This is pointless. He can't see a fucking thing. Defeated, he gets back into bed. Hank throws the covers over them. He puts his arms around Harry.  
“There,” he says, “That's not so bad, is it?”  
Hank's warm and solid. In spite of everything, even in the dark, he's real. Harry can't escape this. He's already been caught. “No,” Harry says, realizing that he must actually mean it. “It's not,” he says, as he's held, in the dark.


End file.
